Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/212



A there is silence in that lonely hall, Save where the waters of the fountain fall, And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes Sweet messages from every bud it wakes. 'Tis more than midnight; all the lamps are gone, Their fragrant oils exhausted,—all but one, A little silver lamp beside a scroll, Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her soul, In those last words, the bitter and the brief. How can they say confiding is relief? Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring;